Love You Goodbye
by RightWriteWright
Summary: What if "Love You Goodbye" wasn't about a girl, but about the One Direction band members themselves? The last few months before the hiatus are hard for the boys of 1D. They're fighting. They're tired. They're burnt out and scared. But they really don't want this to be over. Framed by the lyrics of "Love You Goodbye" by One Direction. Rated M for language.
1. Chapter 1: Zayn

**Zayn's POV**_**: "It's inevitable everything that's good comes to an end**__**"**_

Bags packed. Flight booked. Car ready to take me to the airport and a pocket full of songs I've written and actually like. No more tours, being chased by screaming fans, locked in hotels, micromanaged by management, singing songs I don't give a shit about, being subjected to hours of interviews that ask the same five ridiculous questions over and over again, or getting rejected because my ideas don't "fit the band." In a couple hours, maybe sooner, I'll be free. Just have to tell _them_.

"_It won't be a long conversation," _I think as I walk toward the manager's office.

I'm the last to arrive, and I sit down at in the farthest chair. No one acknowledges me. Niall's, the naïve little bastard, is prattling on about what he wants to do at the next tour stop. God, I hope he never tries to go solo. The industry will eat him alive. I don't care how much the Americans like his accent. Next to him, Liam is half-listening. The rest of his attention is on Louis and Harry, who are losing their goddamn minds in some kind of thumb wrestling match. If they were normal blokes and just sat and waited quietly, they'd hear me sigh. But they're not, so they don't. They're screaming and flailing, and they're about as mature as the 12-year-olds who come to our concerts.

"_Well,_ their _concerts now," _I think and smirk to myself.

Finally, our manager comes in and leans against the doorframe.

"What's the bloody hell is going on?" he barks over chaos. Everyone, thankfully, shuts up, and I think they notice me for the first time since I got here. We haven't been on great terms lately—not that we've ever been. I know I'm supposed to be the fucking "mysterious" one, but they never made of an effort to figure me out. Well, consider this one mystery solve.

"Just ready for our weekly band meeting, boss!" Liam chirps. Liam was smooth, I'd give him that. About the only one of them with half a head on his shoulders.

Our manager only growls in response. God, I won't miss him.

"Let's get started then," he grumbles. "First, try to keep your hands off of each other this week. Water fights, shaving cream—Styles still isn't over the whole pants-ing incident!"

"It's fine—" Harry cuts in, laughing. He couldn't even keep a straight face when we were getting chastised.

"It's _not! _I still can't believe you lot agreed to put that in the movie! You're worse than schoolboys. Just sing and flirt with those pretty girls in the first row. They're paying too much money, and we want them to _keep _doing that."

I smirk to myself. That shuts Styles up pretty quick. I can't wait to make my exit now.

"Now, as I was saying," our manager continues, "this week you're going to—"

"I'm not going," I say. I couldn't guarantee that the others would ever be this quiet again. It was worth pissing off the boss to get my voice out there.

And I sure did piss him off.

"You're _what_, Malik?" he bellows "And just _why _aren't you going? Got plans with that little girl of yours, do ya'?"

God, I hate it when he brings up Perrie, Truth be told, _I _don't even like bringing up Perrie these days. But I'll be damned if I fuck this up.

"I'm not going anywhere anymore," I say. "I'm done. With all of this. I'm leaving."

That nearly blew the top off the building.

Niall blanches, and I think he might cry. Liam looks like he wants nothing more than to slug me. Mr. Funny Man Louis doesn't look much like laughing with his jaw clenched, and Harry—well, Harry looks like I just told him I leaked his sex tape. The Golden Child is speechless.

All of this lasts for about a second before the screaming starts, all directed at me of course. It sounds like they're all competing to outdo the other ones. And I think Niall is actually crying now.

"Whattaya' fuckin' mean you're done, ya bellend?"

"We're in the middle of a tour! You can't just fuckin' up and leave!"

"You're a right proper arse, you know that?"

"You can piss the fuck off, then, Zayn! And take your shitty attitude with you!"

Somewhere in the middle of it all, I add, "It was inevitable. We could never do this forever."

But loudest of all, because he says it quietly, his face purple with rage, is our manager: "Then go. Walk out of here, and don't come back."

So I do, with a few of the assistants, still pretty dumbfounded, escorting me.

If I would turn around, I'd see my former bandmates looking shocked and hurt and right livid.

But I don't.

Because I don't care.

I stopped caring a long time ago.

And now I'm free.


	2. Chapter 2: Louis

**Louis POV:**_** "**__**It's impossible to know if after this we can still be friends, yeah**__** / **__**I know you're saying you don't wanna hurt me, well maybe you should show a little mercy**__**" **_

I'm not an idiot, but it still takes me a minute to process the word I just heard: hiatus. Maybe I'm too shocked. The word was never on our radar. "Hiatus," whatever that damn dictionary says, is just code for "break up."

"Lou?" Niall whispers. I can hear his voice crack, and it's about half an octave higher than normal. We're fucked, so the walls go up.

"'M fine," I mumble.

We've got an album coming out in November that we still need to finish writing for. We should be planning a tour, selling tickets, tweeting, posting, teasing singles and songs. No, no, no. There's too much to do. We can't be seriously talking about taking a break.

I knew this is how the conversation would go as soon as we sat down in Harry's living room, though. You could cut the tension with a knife. We all looked a right sight: bloodshot eyes and shaky hands and Niall even paler than usual. Harry kept running his hands through his stupid hair that I don't think he's brushed in a week.

So I knew it was bad.

Have known it, for a while, I guess.

But, dammit, am I mad!

I was just hitting my stride with the group. I finally felt _good _performing. I banged out some killer songs for this album! And I've really taken a shine to producing, too! And now they say they want to "take a break." Well, I know what "take a break" means. I "took a break" with Eleanor. And that ended.

End.

The band was over.

Or it would be.

Like Zayn said months ago, it was inevitable.

How could they do this to me?

Oh, I know _they'll _be fine. Harry's a fucking superstar already. Niall has America in his back pocket, and Liam is a bear; he'll get whatever he wants. But me? I don't have Niall's puppy-dog disposition or Liam's eloquence or Harry's sex appeal. I'm funny, I guess, but only when there's someone to laugh at me. I don't have the voice that the others do—Liam's falsetto or Harry's growl or Niall's range.

I can't go solo.

I can't be without them.

The band.

My brothers.

"Why?" I finally choke out, my voice already failing.

They all exchange looks. Clearly, I'm the odd man out. They want this, and I don't.

"I'm tired, mate," Liam says, eyes dripping with sympathy. Or maybe it's pity. I can't tell. I don't care. "We've going at this for 5 years. We haven't stopped. Haven't taken a proper break. I can feel it getting to me."

Niall nods. "We're fighting now."

"_Fighting?" _I think and wrack my brain. The truth of his words hit me. Liam and me rowing about the mix of one of the songs. Harry making a piss when we had to catch a redeye flight last week. Even Niall had snapped at me about my mess.

"It's all stupid shit, yeah, but what about when it's not?" Niall continues. "We're going to kill each other. And we deserve better than that."

"I think—" Harry starts slowly. Silently, I beg him to stop. Not Harry, too. Not my best mate. Not the one person I'd confide it all in. But he doesn't stop. "—if we could make ourselves love it again…we would. But we're human, ya know? And we've done so much. It's like we left home for X-Factor auditions and didn't stop for five years. None of us were ready for that. For this."

I'm silent for too long, taking it all in.

"It's just a break, Lou," Harry adds, almost too quiet for me to hear—but I do. "It's not forever."

I agree with them, with everything they've said, but that doesn't stop me from wanting to scream. And I've never been one to hold my tongue.

"FUCK THIS! Let's just take a holiday, then! Bring our families! How can you just throw in the towel and call it quits?! How can you give up on everything we've built?! On us?! On _me_?!" I'm pleading now, I know it. I can taste the tears in the back of my throat as I aim a kick at the nearest wall. "Fuckin' shit, mate. Fuckin' shit."

Now they're too silent.

"I don't _want _it," Harry says, shocking me a little. But the surprise instantly turns to rage, like water hitting a hot stove.

"_Then don't do it_!" I hiss back.

"I don't want it, but we _need _it," Harry continues. I can see his eyes shining with tears.

I know I'm being a royal prat, but no one else is fighting for us, and I love the feeling of arguing—_really _arguing—with the lads. After months of buildup, this is the explosion we've been waiting for. It feels good to let it out.

"I _need _food!" I shoot back. "I _need _water! I _need _to blow off steam with a drink or a proper football match every once in a while!" I inhale sharply before adding, "I _need _you lot!"

I'm crying.

And Liam is crying.

And Niall has _been_ crying.

And even Harry's crying.

And, in that moment, I know that we're all crying for the same reason: because I'm right, but being right isn't enough this time.

This was inevitable.


	3. Chapter 3: Niall

**Niall's POV: **_**"Unforgettable together, held the whole world in our hands**__** / **__**Unexplainable, a love that only we could understand, yeah**__" _

"_We need this," _I tell myself.

We need this.

We need this.

We need this.

We need this. We need this. We need this.

Weneedthis. Weneedthis. Weneedthis.

Weneedthisweneedthisweneedthis.

I repeat it like a chant. It's my mantra. The only thing that helps me hold my resolve while me and my best mates are crying our eyes out in Harry's flat.

We don't want this, but we need it.

In our hearts, we know that, and that's why Louis's so mad. Because we know we can't fix it no matter how much we want to.

I look around at these boys. I've practically grown up with them. We saw each other through our gawky teenage years into young adulthood, from nobodies on the streets of the UK to the biggest boyband in the world. And I can't wrap my head around how we did it, but we bloody did, didn't we? In a way, it's been so good that we're all afraid it'll never happen again.

I know I am.

I can't go back to Mullingar. I've seen too much of the world, tasted too much fame, fell in love with too many songs. I can't be happy there in the same way I was before all this. But how can I do this without my boyos? A stage is so big for one person. But I have to try, don't I? I said it myself that I won't be happy sitting at home for more than a month or so.

Blimey, I wish this was easier.

I wish Harry would tell a bad joke to make us laugh.

I wish Louis would mock him for it.

I wish Liam would try to keep a stiff upper lip and fail and start laughing anyway.

I don't regret one part of this. Well, except maybe my audition song. It was pretty awful. But I don't regret not making it as a solo act. I don't regret the band not winning. I don't regret the long months on the tour bus or the whirlwind traveling or the one-album-per-year quota or the hundreds of hours of sleep I lost or not going to uni or not being able to walk out into the street without being bombarded. I'm a kid from a tiny house in Ireland. No one should know me. And yet...

I can't sit here anymore. The room is too quiet, and my thoughts are too loud, and I can feel the walls getting closer. I need to get up.

So I do.

And I clap Liam on the shoulder, and I ruffle Harry's hair. Normally, he hates it, but he looks up at me with an almost-smile, and I try to mirror the look in my own eyes. It's hard to smile right now. But we're doing our best.

And then I walk over to Louis. "Walk" is a strong word, since he's only about two paces away, sitting on the loveseat with his arms crossed like a little kid in timeout. Granted, I bet we all look like little kids right now, blubbering and pouting.

And I sit beside him.

He doesn't look my way, but I didn't expect him to.

Without saying anything, I lean over and put my head on his shoulder and wrap my arm around him like I've done so many times before. Louis, who always has a goofy grin on his face and a joke up his sleeve. He's always good for a laugh or drink or a spot of advice. He's like a brother to me, and it's killing me to see him so broken. I drag my arm across my face to wipe my nose. I can almost see how absurd I look.

And, against all reason, I laugh.

I laugh and I laugh and I laugh, and it's borderline insane before Louis raises an eyebrow and addresses me.

"Something funny, Nialler?" he asks. His voice is cold, and his body is stiff, but using my nickname means that he doesn't hate me.

"Just us," I reply, having finally caught my breath. "We look a right mess, I reckon, sitting here boo-hooing like all our grandmums just died."

"You seem to be taking this hi—hiatus well," Louis says in the same cold tone, only choking a little on the word "hiatus."

"C'mon, Louis, you know I of everyone didn't want this to end. What, and go back to Ireland all alone with a literal channel separating us? Or worse, the States, where there's a bloody ocean keeping us apart?"

"Mate, you'll never be alone. We'll always have your back, and—" Louis stopped, and I swear his mouth almost twitched into a smile. "You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"Right-o, Tommo!" I grin, now fully embracing the smile that's been daring to break through for several minutes. "You know bloody well that this is eating at all of us. I mean, look at us, for Christ's sake! But it's _because _we care that we have to do this. It's scaring me, shitless, to be honest, but I'd rather keep my three best friends and lose the band than keep churning out albums and lose my brothers."

Louis does smile now, and I release a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"We've got too much history to let it all come crashing down," Liam says from behind. "We've been on top of the world for five years now."

"That's a long way down," I mutter mostly to myself. And then I look around. Harry hasn't said a word in ages, his mane of curls hiding his face from the rest of us. I'm not totally sure that he's not still crying. Liam has his jaw clenched and hasn't bothered to wipe the tear streaks from his face. And Louis, well, Louis is looking between the three of us like one of us has a way out of this mess.

We definitely deserve a better ending. I know that much.

"_I guess we just can't let this be the end, then," _I think to myself before throwing my other arm around Louis and engulfing him in a proper hug.

I'm not sure who needed it more.


	4. Chapter 4: Liam

**Liam's POV: **_**"I know there's nothing I can do to change it, but is there something that can be negotiated? / My heart's already breaking, baby, go on twist the knife"**_

"_I'm done. With all of this. I'm leaving."_

I hear Zayn's voice in my head like he left yesterday. I don't remember the following days, though. We crafted the statement, made the announcement. Made up a bunch of shit about how we'd miss him and wish him the best when, in reality, I would have liked smack him across his smug little face, and I think Louis had a proper kidnapping scheme in the works. The lads and I cried a little at the time, but, looking back, I can't say I'm surprised. Zayn had been withdrawing for years. He always looked bored or arrogant or like he was better than us. He wasn't having fun, and he wasn't fun to have around.

He didn't even say "goodbye."

After everything we'd been through, he didn't care enough to say goodbye.

So good riddance.

I sit up and shake off the memories. God, I wish I could sleep these days. Not that it matters much; I'd be up at the arsecrack of dawn anyway, because it's release day. Maybe our last one.

I get dressed in the dark, hoping I can fool my body that it's sleeping, and stumble out into the living room. Harry's passed out on the couch, all arms and legs and hair sprawled out in all directions. Niall's curled up in the recliner like some kind of cat, and that means that Louis must have won the battle for the guest room.

Carefully, I step over empty bottles and cans. As if it matters. The lads are sloshed. They wouldn't hear a firetruck if it barreled through the room right now.

I fumble through my kitchen, looking for clean mugs and coffee grinds. Truth be told, I'm still feeling the effects of last night, too. We drank until after 2AM, and it's a quarter after 4 now. We've done that too often these last few months. Since Zayn left. And Louis found out he's having a kid. And we started fighting about dumb shit. We mostly agree when we're drunk, so we get drunk a lot.

Finally, fed up and headachy, I cut the light on. I hear Harry groan, but I can't muster much sympathy.

"Get up, Haz!" I call. "It's release day!" The old nickname is hollow in my mouth, but it's what I'm supposed to say in the moment. I know that.

I love the lads. We're brothers. We've grown up together, but, after burning the candle at both ends for 5 years, I'm tired. But I keep going through the motions hoping that, at some point, they'll feel right again. Somewhere deep down, I know that won't happen if we keep going like this. Maybe that's why I keep drinking. To avoid that fact.

If we didn't love each other, why would we spend more nights together than apart. We have our own flats in the same building. We could each sleep in our own beds every night, but we haven't spent more than a night apart since the last tour ended. It's like we know our days are numbered. Or maybe we can't stand to think there's one empty apartment that we'll never go into again.

Fuck, Zayn. Fuck him for leaving. Fuck us for ever having loved him.

I pour two cups of black coffee and carry them into the living room. I make space among the beer cans and chocolate wrappers on the end table for one and nudge Niall's makeshift bed with my foot.

"Get up, Nialler. The car's coming in 45 minutes," I say. Forcing a smile, I add, "It's release day."

Apparently, Harry's more awake than I realized, because he chimes in with a half-coherent sentence in his gravelly, sleep-heavy voice: "Th' nex' album's called 'Made a' 4 inna Afternoon.'"

I almost chuckle. We keep making these plans—"the next album," "the next tour," "next time this," and "next time that." I dunno' if "next time" will ever come.

"Well, since you're up, Haz, drink some coffee, and go waken Tommo," I say, handing him the second mug.

Harry rolls his eyes.

"Hey, I did it yesterday," I remind him.

"Make Niall do it," Harry whines.

"Niall's asleep," I say simply, noticing that Niall's blonde head is still neatly tucked between his arm and the arm of the chair.

"Fine, "Harry groans and forces himself, unsteadily, off the couch. He's fully clothed, an unusual state for Harry. He must have been right wasted when he fell asleep.

I sip on my own coffee and pop two aspirin into my mouth to combat the pounding n my head, hoping desperately that I won't vomit it up.

"C'mon, Niall," I call loudly in the direction of the living room. "We leave in 30 minutes, and you're a proper fucking mess, mate." He hasn't been snoring since I turned the light on. I know he's not really asleep.

Niall sits up and grins, his blue eyes glassy. He sips the coffee beside him and perks up a fraction.

"Thanks, Payno. Glad ta' see ya."

I really can't be mad at that little Irish tosser, can I?

By some miracle, we all make it out the door by 5AM and even seem partly alive. We've gotten pretty good at working through hangovers over the years. We know how to turn on the charm, and, to an extent, we genuinely enjoy the media days, especially seeing the fans. They've been so supportive since Zayn left. This album is for them. They, at least, deserve something good.

It's a bloody whirlwind of radio stations and TV interviews. We get asked about Zayn at ever goddamn one: "How was it recording without Zayn?" "Who will take Zayn's parts in the old songs?" "Have you been in touch with Zayn since he left?" "Are you replacing Zayn?" We knew it would happen, but it's exhausting. I'm running on 2 hours of sleep and almost break before we finally get a break.

"Blimey, the media's voracious, ain't it?" I ask once the four of us are alone in the car.

"Vultures," Louis agrees, waving to a line of screaming girls on the street. Then he adds, "Look at this one, though, she's got a sign."

I look, and I smile, too. In the parade crowd that's formed, there's a girl, maybe 16, holding a sign: "'Hey Angels,' today will go down in 'History'! My name's 'Olivia,' and I came a 'Long Way Down' from Manchester this 'A.M.' to say that 1D is "Perfect," and even though I've seen you "Infinity" times, it's "Never Enough," and I can't wait to see you at 'End of the Day'!"

"Someone get her contact info," I say. "We should send her something."

It's Olivia's sign that reminds me why I do this. How _lucky _I am that I _get to _do this.

But I'm still tired, and I fall asleep before we get to the next station.


	5. Chapter 5: Harry

"_**Oh, why you wearing that to walk out of my life?**__** / **__**Oh, even though it's over you should stay tonight"**__ -_** Harry's POV**

It came too soon.

We had agreed that the hiatus would start the first of the year. It had sounded reasonable at the time. Do some promo for the new album, and then take a break.

But now it's New Years Eve, and I'm rethinking everything.

It doesn't feel like a proper New Year's Eve. I've been packing for weeks, and my flat is pretty threadbare by now. I could've done it in a couple days, but I kept find all these little things that would send me down a rabbit hole: notes from X-Factor, the 1D book, a whole box of pictures I nicked from the "Story of My Life" set, little versions of me, Liam, Niall, Louis, and even Zayn looking up at me.

The kids in those pictures had no idea what was coming. I sure as hell didn't. All the joy. All the heartbreak. I'd be lying if I said there weren't things I'd want to change, but the fact that the end hurts must mean it was good, right?

I couldn't bring myself to get rid of those pictures, so they went back in the box. I taped it up and labeled it "L.A." If the lads couldn't come with me, I'd still have them there in some way.

We're all still getting together tonight, just like any other year. We're going to Louis' place, and we even invited Zayn, but he didn't respond to our texts…or emails. I thought we might all get a little closure if he came. Maybe he already has closure; maybe we never will. I don't know.

Louis' flat is still furnished, with everything in its (messy, disorganized) place. He's said he's splitting time between London and Doncaster for the foreseeable future. I don't know how he's doing it. Part of the reason I'm going to L.A. is because London feels too much like the lads right now. Every corner reminds me of them, and I don't want their ghosts with me every day. I know we said this hiatus isn't forever, but it's hard to stare uncertainty in the face, so it kind of _feels _like forever.

As, I climb the steps to Louis' door, I keep telling myself that this break will be good. There's so much I want to experiment with that I couldn't do with the band—my sound, my fashion, my_self_. I want horns and choirs and sequins and some killer ballads. I know Liam'll come out with wicked hip-hop beats like he's always blasting backstage. Niall will get the chance to showcase his guitar skills. Louis' been on the fence about what he wants to do, but I know he has to come back to music. He's probably the most pop of us, but I'd love to see him pull in some of his punk roots. I want us all to make the music _we _want to make, the kind that expresses who _we _are as individuals. We made some fucking great stuff together, but I know we have the potential to do more apart.

I just don't like the "apart" part much.

But I slick on a smile as I knock, because, hey, this might be our last NYE together as a band for a while. Might as well have fun.

Louis, already tipsy at 4 o'clock in the afternoon, greets me wearing a cheap plastic hat and glasses and the usual "Louis grin" that I've come to know so well over the last few years. I know it so well, in fact, that I can see it's tinged with sadness today. I imagine mine looks the same, but we both choose to ignore it for the sake of living in the moment.

"Hazza!" Louis cheers. "You're late, love!"

I shoulder past him with a playful shove and a lighthearted "Fuck off." He's right, though. Liam and Niall are in the living room, playing—and losing—a game of Twister with two of Louis' younger sisters. From the kitchen, I hear Louis' mum, Jay, talking to the babies. I assume laughter must be coming from Liam's parents, Geoff and Karen, because I just saw Liam's youngest sister dash down the hall, presumably going off to meet up with the middle Tomlinson girls, Daisy and Phoebe.

But there's something about the laughter that doesn't feel entirely like Liam's Wolverhampton quip. And there are too many voices layered together.

I'm only slightly caught off guard when I'm grabbed from behind by a squealing mass. At first, I think it's one of the younger girls, but when a hand unceremoniously musses my hair, I know who it is:

"Gemma," I grin. "What are you doing here?"

She lets go of me and beams. "Surprise! Lou invited me and mum down! Robin would have come, but he has business tomorrow. He sends his love, of course." I shoot a glance at Louis who's lounging in the doorway. He shrugs. Of course he invited my family. And his family. And Liam's family. He probably invited Niall's parents, too. So maybe this wouldn't be like every other New Year's spent with the lads, but I have to admit that the chaos and bustle of screaming children is a somewhat welcomed change from the usual screaming of drunk men.

"_Maybe this is what the hiatus will be like," _I think. _"Different, but not bad."_

The evening is good—great even. We drink and laugh and visit and remember. It's been a hell of a year for everyone. Only the babies fall asleep before midnight. As the ball drops, Louis kisses each of his sisters on the cheek; Liam plants a particularly wet kiss on a protesting Ruth; even Gemma relents and lets me kiss her; I'm pretty sure Niall kissed my mum's cheek. I'll let it slide this time. God knows he's fancied her since the beginning. It's weird.

And then Jay is sending the girls to bed, and the Paynes are corralling Ruth, and Gemma has an "after-party" to get to—and pretty soon it's just the lads in Louis' more-disheveled-than-usual living room, and, in the silence, I'm even more thankful for the distraction that our families provided tonight.

"Happy 2016," Niall says meekly, and we all know what he really means: happy hiatus.

"Hey, well, thanks for hosting, Tommo," Liam smiles, clapping Louis on the shoulder. "It was brilliant of you getting our families down here." He starts searching the room for his jacket and shoes. "I reckon I better get going. Don't want my parents to forget me when they head home in the morning."

Niall yawns, and I can't help but thinks it's a little forced. He's not _that _drunk, and it's not _that _late. "Ditto with that," he agrees. "I'm flying home in about seven hours, and I haven't packed a thing."

I don't want to say what I do, but I say it anyway: "I better make sure my things are ready, too. Flying out to L.A. first thing tomorrow."

"Mates!" Louis cries incredulously. "You're really leaving? On this, our last night together in who knows how long?"

Liam shuffles.

Niall avoids eye contact.

I just stutter.

"Stay," Louis says. He's pleading, more than a little but less than full-on begging. "One more night. For old time's sake."

After a pause that could have been a second or an hour, Liam takes his shoes off. Instantly, Niall collapses back onto the couch…and I breathe again.

I guess we didn't need that much convincing.

We drag mattresses, pillows, blankets, and cushions into the living room. We fill up on drink and snacks and laugh about the last five years. I wish I had brought the old photos I found before I left, but it turns out that Louis has a stack of his own, and we relive the past, focusing on the good times and only throwing veiled jabs at the bad times. Tonight wasn't a night for reopening wounds.

It only prolonged the inevitable, but we needed one more night.

The sun comes up too soon. Bleary-eyed and sleep-deprived, Liam, Niall, and I stumbled to Louis' front door where there are three separate drivers waiting for us. For once, we aren't all going back to the same place.

I try to remember them exactly as they are: Niall's t-shirt and too-loud laugh; Liam's crumpled, untucked button-up and jeans' Louis' perpetually messy hair and gray tracksuit. We'll always be brothers. We were part of each other growing up.

I hope they know.

I hope they remember.

I always will.


End file.
